Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!elnk-atl-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!atl-c03.usenetserver.com!news.usenetserver.com!newsread.com!newsstand.newsread.com!POSTED.newshog.newsread.com!not-for-mail Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Approved: ascem@earthlink.net Organization: Better Living Thru TrekSmut Sender: ascem@earthlink.net Message-ID: From: "lyrastarwatcher" MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEML@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEML-owner@yahoogroups.com Subject: NEW TOS: Apollo Physician 4/7 (K/Mc)[NC-17] Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 725 Date: Sat, 13 Nov 2004 05:55:12 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.198.142.218 X-Complaints-To: Abuse Role , We Care X-Trace: newshog.newsread.com 1100325312 209.198.142.218 (Sat, 13 Nov 2004 00:55:12 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 13 Nov 2004 00:55:12 EST Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated:85566 X-Received-Date: Fri, 12 Nov 2004 21:56:36 PST (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title: Apollo Physician [NC-17] part 4/7 Author: Lyrastar url: www.geocities.com/lyrastarwatcher/apollo for easier reading ------------ Chapter 5 ---I will apply dietetic measures for the benefit of the sick according to my ability and judgment; I will keep them from harm and injustice.--From the Oath of Hippocrates It was the eighty-fourth floor, the VIP suite of course. Dad would have seen to that. The name on the door read "David Hollis McCoy." Mostly when I had seen it written out, it was followed by the "MD" tag; it looked naked and vulnerable without it. Below the name the, medalert panel glowed with blue letters, "BBP." Biobed Precautions. I'd seen this many times before, sometimes on my orders, sometimes not. It was a-two-edged sword and an important tool of our trade. Like any other tool, it was only as useful or harmful as its applications. Biobeds had been developed after multiple failures in cryogenic preservation. Li and Bronsen won the 2251 Nobel Prize in Medicine for its development. Micromagnetic harmonic distortion was used to replicate, augment and sustain autonomic nervous system function--and therefore, the life of the body--after the failure of many organ systems. But there was a catch. Science wasn't perfect--not by a long shot-- and the loss of brain cells under Biobed control was enormous. It was a stopgap measure only. It could be used to sustain the body until transportation to better medical facilities, or to give an extra few days for antibiotics and other medications to take effect, but the maximum recommended time on it was three months. Once, when I had just finished my medical residency, I had ordered a Bed for a young mother. Joanna had just been born and fatherhood was the most amazing thing I had ever known; it was like life had just become real to me. I couldn't bear the thought of this woman never hearing her children's voices again--never again being able to hold them against her heart--so I kept her alive with a Bed until all her tissue had been regenerated. It took eight months. When she was weaned from the Bed, she was paralyzed everywhere except her left arm. She was deaf and could still see out of one eye, but couldn't focus. She was alive; I'd saved her all right. I never exceeded the three-month recommendation again. I hadn't thought about her in years. Time heals all wounds, or maybe it just scabs them over to hard crusts. The blue letters held my attention, and I realized something else. The Biobed needed the nervous system infrastructure in order to work, and that was exactly what was failing, according to Dr. Landry. However long he had, it wouldn't be three months. For the first time, it hit me that this was it--soon I would be an orphan. Even at twenty-eight, that was how it felt. My father was dying. Actively dying. Here. Now. There would be no more time to hope that he would change--no next year or next month, maybe not even next week. If it was ever going to get any better between us, it would have to be now. And knowing dad, the first move would have to come from me. I pushed the door open and went in. When I entered the room, the first thing that caught my eye was not my father, but the Atlanta skyline in the big, round window behind his bed. He had brought me to the city many times as a kid and every time I had gaped at the skyscrapers shooting up around me, so different from the orchards around Weston, where we'd lived. It was no different now. I was all grown up, but here in my father's presence, I was small again and the towering skyline still made me stare. "Hollis." My father's voice tore me away from the window. "Dad." The word echoed around the room, punctuated by the beeping of the Bed. It sounded as strained to me now as the use of my middle name did applied to me. For five generations there had been a Hollis McCoy. The first had been a leader in the reconstruction of North America after the third world war. For the 150 years since that time, each Hollis McCoy had made the planet a better place. It was a heavy burden for a kid, and my father reminded me of it at every opportunity. I'd been named Hollis after him. For him. Because I was a newer version of him. Better not mess it up. When our daughter LJ--Joanna, first called Little Joey then shortened to LJ to save confusion-- was born, Dad had wanted us to name her Hollis too. Only Mom was able to talk some sense into him. Wait for a boy, she'd said. It wasn't what she meant, but it didn't matter; it had worked. It might not have, if she hadn't died before LJ was born. But she did, and dad never brought up the subject after that. Once upon a time Joey had pushed me to have another one, but I'd been too busy; I told her we had enough in our lives as it was. Then she has stopped pushing, or even mentioning it. Then she had left. Now it looked like there might never be a Hollis VI. Or if there were, that dad wouldn't be alive to know it. I was it; I would be all he had. "Dad." The word echoed around the room. "What're you doing here? Has Shirley been telling you stories?" Thin white hairs fringed the pinched wrinkles of his face. His skin sunk sallow and his voice was thin and brittle, nothing like the authority that I remembered. I wondered if I had even imagined that stentorian voice of my childhood. He struggled to sit. "Damn. I could move my feet this morning." I didn't know how to answer that. "Shirley says they don't know what it is or what to do," I said. "I know something of neurology. I might be able to help. Anyway, I wanted to be here." "The best minds on the continent are here. There's nothing you can do. "Did you bring my granddaughter?" I guess that was going to be all the tender reunion I would get. "She's with Jocelyn. I'll call them in the morning--get her down. Shirley said you told her to call." "Mm. Shirley." He shifted using his palms for leverage, and pulled himself up a little further. "Son, I need you to help your mother." She's not my mother. "What?" "She's not strong. She doesn't understand like we do. She insisted on the damned Bed." He gestured down to the mattress. "But you and I know better, don't we?" "I don't know anything dad. You can refuse it. Doctor Landry says you're in pain, and it won't get better." I moved a little closer to his side. "I know. Your mother, she doesn't understand--she can't accept less than trying, but you and I know death, don't we, Hollis? We know it when we see it. It's just another part of life, and you and I aren't afraid. So I need you to do for he--for us--what she can't do. Biobeds don't always work, do they? Especially in neuro cases. I need you to be strong and make this right." To my memory, this was the first time he had ever said that he needed something from me. "I can't do that, dad. I'm a doctor." "Of course you can. You know how foolish this is." "I've done some research on axonal loss. I think I can help." "I know you can, help Hollis. I'm trying to show you how." He always knew best. When I was fourteen I had entered a science fair. "The Relationship Between Cytokines and Histocompatability in Non-Autologous Transplantation." I'd poured my heart and soul into the project. The morning of the fair I'd gone over my presentation and found that the analysis had been altered. Dad. He wanted to show me a better way. I placed first in the medicine division and never worked on that project again. "I'm trying to show you how. I need your help." Now he needs my help. Ain't that a trip? "We're alike, Hollis. You and me. I need you, son." ******* Chapter 6 ---What I may see or hear in the course of the treatment or even outside of the treatment in regard to the life of men, which on no account one must spread abroad, I will keep to myself, holding such things shameful to be spoken about.--from the Oath of Hippocrates I called Shirley's automotive service company from the lobby. They came out, did whatever they had to, and charged me a fortune, but Hoopdy made it back to Jackson just fine. Jackson is where I had gone through medical school. I came back again for a third residency; they had one of the best microsurgical departments in the country. Or maybe it was some urge within me to go back to a simpler, happier time. Joey had tried to talk me out of it; she said that she saw little enough of me as it was, and that the commute would suck up the little free time I had. But microsurgery was where the future of medicine was. Dad agreed. I had gone and fallen in love with the new techniques--things that could relieve so much suffering. Joey filed for divorce three months later. That fixed the problem of the commute. I had taken half of an apartment with an intern, Jerry, and only went back home for scheduled visitation. Jerry was quiet and we got along fine, for the brief periods that we were both there. First, I stopped by the lab and set up the tissue assays. I would have liked to review the case with someone else, but it wasn't even daybreak yet, and no one else was in. I thought about looking through the data that Dr. Landry had already compiled, but my eyes wouldn't stay focused long enough to make sense of it; I hadn't slept in over a day. Giving up, I headed back to the apartment--to my so- called home. "Surprise," said Jim Kirk, from his seat on my overstuffed couch. I prided myself that I didn't jump. "How'd you get in here?" "Your roomie let me in." "Just like that?" Jerry was not the trusting type. Jim gestured, palms up. "I have a way with people." "So I see." I slung my bag down on the table. "But how'd you even find me?" He shrugged. "Starfleet has the best compsystem ever built. Finding one almost-a-doctor with a Georgia accent in school in Mississippi wasn't much trouble." "And they let smart-mouthed cadets have free reign over it? That's comforting." "Who said anything about 'let'?" He raised his eyebrows in the manner of the guilty who aren't particularly concerned about appearing otherwise. "And I am a doctor; I'm just getting more education." Jim stood up and prowled toward me. "Sure. Completed one medical residency, and a general surgical one as well. Now studying microsurgery." "Can you also tell me where I put my good chronometer? I haven't seen it in weeks." "No. But I might be able to take your mind off of time for a while." Jim took another step forward. "Don't I get a kiss?" I brushed him off and looked toward Jerry's bedroom. "Knock it off. I'm in the middle of a divorce with custody issues. I can't afford to be seen like this." "Whoring around with a guy?" "Playing around with anyone--while I'm still officially married." "What're you doing here anyway? And don't tell me you couldn't get me off your mind." "No." Jim reached into a pocket and extracted a datachip. "You left this in my room. I thought it might be important, so I came by to return it on my way home." "Last I looked, San Francisco was the other direction." I took the chip from him and checked the label. "I've got time. And I'd sort of lost interest in New Orleans," said Jim. "Oh, and by the way, your roommate isn't here. He left about an hour ago for hospital rounds." I processed that vaguely, while examining the chip; it wasn't mine. I told him so and passed it back. "Are you sure? I found it underneath the table, below where you bag was." "Positive. I label mine by hand." I stuck the chip in my bicorder, and pulled it up onscreen to confirm. It was an update on Klingon weaponry. "Oops. Guess you're right. How silly of me," Jim said as he sprawled back on the couch with an easy smile. He flung his arms over the back of the sofa in apparent invitation. I was too tired for this. "Why'd you really come here, Jim? A guy like you could pick up all the tricks he wanted; why follow me?" It came out sounding harsher than I'd intended, but Jim barely reacted. "Sure, but it's not often I meet someone I have so much in common with outside of the fleet. I was--intrigued. It makes me think-- wonder what else I could have done with my life. And," he added, "I'm not used to having people run away from my bed. I got--worried. I wondered if I could help." He patted the empty spot on the sofa beside him. "Trust me; you don't want my life." I took a seat--by myself--in one of the straight backed dinette chairs. "Oh, don't get me wrong. I'd never have chosen anything other than Starfleet; it's called me since I was a kid. But sometimes I wonder how else things might have been. Don't you?" "Yeah." I twisted my wedding band around on my finger. "You think we have a lot in common? I don't see it." "You know what it's like to be responsible for other lives. The rest of the cadets--even the ones who've been there--don't talk about it. They don't talk about what that does to you--and sometimes I feel like I just have to let it out. Last night was nice. And not just in the obvious way." Jim continued, "So I thought maybe we could--talk some more. We both gave up our families for the job--" "I didn't give up my family." It came out as a snap. "My wife left me." True--sort of. She'd said I'd worked too much and that our marriage had turned into a farce. She said she'd given me enough chances. "I can change," I'd told her. It had surprised me that there had been no malice in her voice. He voice was still as soft and sweet as it had been under the July honeysuckle vines when we had made our plans. "I know you can. You've always amazed me in the way that you can do absolutely anything at all--but you don't want to, and that's a much bigger problem, don't you see?" Even in college, I'd always had the uneasy feeling that Joey was innately smarter than me. Jim looked pointedly around the bachelor pad. "Oh, I see. My mistake." His voice grew hard and he pushed off the sofa to pace my floor. I had been drifting again and I struggled to focus on his words. "Both my parents are dead. I haven't seen my brother in over three years. I have two nephews I've never met. And you know what? Since our own father was never home, none of us even think that's strange-- or even sad. "So when you said you had a problem, I wondered if you had anyone to turn to. I wouldn't have. I've got fleet buddies who'd kill and die for me, but no one to go to with something important. No one I can talk to. "But that's me, not you." Jim waited. "My father's dying." There. I'd said it. "It's going to be slow and miserable and it looks like there's not a damned thing I can do about it. I just got back from the hospital, and I'm beat." Jim sat back down and motioned with one hand. This time I did join him on the couch. I sagged into the soft Pletherhide and Jim dropped an arm around my shoulders. It was warm and real and solid. The clinical part of my brain whispered terms like 'cognitive dissonance', 'denial', and 'transference', but the rest was just plain grateful for the comfort. "I've never felt so helpless," I said. Two fingers stroked my shoulder. His voice was strong and calm; it inspired trust itself. "In the final year, there's a command simulation test that no one's ever won. Candidates lose marks for comportment, ethics, for strategy--but not for losing lives. The instructors say failing to attain the impossible doesn't make an officer any less capable." "You're saying it's not my fault. I know that. But it doesn't make it any easier." He shook his head. "Uh-uh. That's not it. I'm telling you I'm going to keep taking that same damn test until I get it right. I don't believe anything's impossible, but you can't win if you don't try." Despite myself, I chuckled. The kid had balls all right. Jim squeezed my shoulders. "But that's a scenario. In life, you don't get repeats. You have to do your best--and you live with whatever happens. In our worlds, that means people die. How many people have to live with that kind of guilt?" In my internship I had a patient die of Vegan choriomeningitis. I didn't recognize the signs in time. I'd always thought that if I had just been a little smarter, a little faster... It didn't matter that my supervising physician didn't spot it either; I'd told the man I was his doctor, that I'd take care of him--and he'd died. I'd tried to talk to my advisor about my guilt. "These things happen, Lenny. Patients will die no matter how good you are. Get used to it, and get back to the ones who still need your help," he'd said. I said to Jim, "You're right. I don't really have anyone, and I am glad you're here." Jim leaned over and kissed me. The kiss stretched out and out-- "Well, that's not very flattering." Jim's eyes twinkled at me. I jolted and realized I had been snoring--just a little. "I'm sorry; it's not you. I'm beat." Jim stood up and extended a hand down to me. "Come on." "Where?" "The bedroom, of course." "I'm too tired." "Come on. Get undressed and lie down. I'm going to make you feel better." Working patiently with his hands and his mouth, Jim proved to be as good as his word. It was as if all the repressed fear and regret shot out of me with that orgasm, and I finally thought I could sleep without dreams. I reached for Jim's dick to reciprocate, but he moved my hand away. He was still rock-hard and as he kissed me, I felt the tension of hunger unassuaged coiled beneath his skin. He wrapped me in his arms and hugged me close, like a child might a favorite toy, yet he made no move towards satisfaction. His kisses ebbed gradually to a gentle patter against my skin. He shifted to fit our bodies more closely together. He wrapped one leg around mine, pressing the full hot weight his dick against me as he did, but he made no other demands. As sleep closed in, I made one last, lazy try for him. He fended me off easily. "Uh, uh. Get some rest. This way you'll owe me a favor later. " Later. I wanted to say something about how we mistakenly take 'later' for granted, but my mouth wouldn't work and soon I was asleep. Some unknown time in the night, I woke up. The room was pitch black and my right arm was cramping under the weight of someone's head. I pulled it back. "Blue Eyes, you awake?" "I am now." He was no longer touching me. In the dark, for all I knew, I could have been quite alone. Was this is how schizophrenics feel--talking to unseen voices, then waiting, feeling a little ridiculous at themselves, for an answer? The bed creaked as he rolled over on his side. A warm hand found my chest. "I know what you mean," he said softly. "Huh?" "About your patient. I know what you mean. I killed a man once. I can understand." "Enemy?' "No. A man under my command. Friendly fire is what they call it. We were on a training survey and were ambushed by Orions. I was survey leader. Terry trusted me, and I killed him. And no one understands. The fleet gave me a ribbon for it--for extracting the rest of the team--but when I close my eyes, I hear him scream every night." I rolled up on my side and reached back for him. "Service means risks and dangers. Every enlistee must know that. As long as we have enemies, soldiers will die--" He jerked away and upright. "Not mine. They put their trust me-- their lives in my hands. I have to be better than that. I have to. I don't want to hear any more screaming. I can't stand any more screams." I found his body in the dark. I pulled him in and rocked him gently against my chest. To my surprise, he let me. It was more of an armful than I was used to, but otherwise not much different. I wondered if those sign-waving members of the religious right had ever tried holding a friend in need. "You can't bring him back. That's the problem with asking to be a hero. No one bats 1000. If you want to play for big stakes, you have to live with the losses," I said. My mouth went dry and I swallowed hard. "I've had patients die who shouldn't have. If I'd only been smarter, faster, better. You just have to--" Jim snapped, "You didn't hear me. He didn't die. I killed him. There's a difference." His body was stiff as a board, and his heart thumped under my hand. I stroked his back and felt him relax marginally under my fingers. "I heard you. But that's the difference between you and me. I just want to be a doctor, not a goddamned hero. If you're going to fight wars, your people are going to die sometimes. Live with it." Now, where had I heard that before? "How do you?" Jim asked. "By focusing on the good I've done, and trying my damnedest to do more than enough to make up for the mistakes I've made." "But you still have to live with the mistakes." "Yeah." I kneaded his back. "Yeah. How?" "I dunno." "Me either." I searched for what to say to that, but everything seemed like meaningless platitudes. He fell asleep while I was still thinking. ******** Chapter 7 ---I swear by Apollo Physician and Asclepius and Hygieia and Panaceia and all the gods and goddesses, making them my witnesses, that I will fulfill according to my ability and judgment this oath and this covenant: --From the Oath of Hippocrates Altogether, I was in bed less than five hours. When my alarm chimed, I reeled, momentarily disoriented by the naked man in my bed. Then it all came back--including my little debt. I woke Jim up, planning to pay him back for last night, but our session came out a draw. Jim said since I still owed him something, I'd have to meet him once more to pay him back. I told him I could live with that. When I came out of the shower, he was gone. My shower was too short. As soon as I turned off the sonics, reality closed back in. The tissue assays would need at least two more hours to produce a degeneration curve, but there was one thing I could do right now. I pulled on a clean shirt and ran a comb through my hair before I sat down at the terminal. Unless her work schedule had changed, Joey--Jocelyn, I reminded myself--should be at home. Of course, it was an open question whether or not she would take the call once she recognized my code. But she was, and she did, although she kept her face guarded. "Len. What do you want?" Nine years and one child together, and those were her first thoughts of me. She still looked as beautiful as she had in college. I'd noticed her around campus, a waterfall of straight brown hair streaming down her back. But it was the not until second semester and we had multivariate calculus together, that I fell hopelessly in love. She'd walked in and sat beside me demurely dressed with the air around her tasting like every girl in my wet dreams and my body went wild. Then she had raised her hand, uncrossed her long legs under her short skirt and stood to demonstrate a proof of Helgini's Theorem. When she leaned over her terminal, a glimpse of bosom appeared in the V of her neckline, and her hair fell forward around her face and shoulders. As she pushed it back, an endless task, she twisted her head just a little and shot a rueful smile just to me, then she punched up the rest of the proof. I had never seen anyone like her, and I decided on the spot that I would marry that girl. She'd had no objection. There was a time when her face would have lit up just to hear my voice. No longer. I would have given anything at that moment to see her smile for me again. "Huh?" Her hair was now cut short, sacrificed to the demands of motherhood, but otherwise she looked just like the girl who had murmured into my chest that she would love me forever. I watched the screen and some deluded part of me waited for her to break out into that tinselly laughter and say it was all a terrible practical joke; please come home. But of course, that wasn't going to happen. "What do you want, Len?" The beautiful voice I remembered was now hard with impatience. "Hi, Jocelyn. It's about LJ." "Oh, Lenny," her tone dropped to the infinitely weary. "We've been over this and over it. If you think you have something new, tell it to my lawyer." She reached for the toggle. LJ was three, almost four now. I never knew a person could love anything so much until the day that she was born. And she loved me purely and absolutely--an exhilarating thrill and responsibility. Custody was the only issue in the divorce. I wouldn't try to hold Joey if she didn't want to stay. Asset redistribution statutes were pretty clear these days, not that it mattered much. With all the time I spent at the hospital, I had no use for most of the stuff we'd accumulated. But she'd been firm on one thing. She wanted sole custody of LJ. She said I was too enmeshed in my work to be any kind of husband, or even a part-time father, and she wouldn't have her daughter growing up like that. The fair and rational part of my brain agreed that Joey was right. But our daughter was the only part of her that still loved me. How could I give that up? "No! Joey--Jocelyn, it's not that. Can you bring her over? Tomorrow--or today would even be better." "It's not your weekend." "I know. It's not for me. I don't even have to be here, if you don't want. It's Dad. He's dying. I mean, actively dying. I'm not sure he'll be here next weekend. So, please, will you bring her up?" "What is it?" Her eyes widened in real concern. "We don't know yet. But it's not contagious, if that's what you mean. Something neurological and degenerative." "Three residencies and you can't tell what's wrong with your own father?" Joey would have made quite a surgeon; She always knew exactly where to stick the knife. "They think it's toxic. Something to do with an exposure during his research. Whatever it is, it's progressing rapidly. He's partially paralyzed already. When it reaches his chest, he'll need life support. I'd like--he'd like to see LJ, before then." "Oh, Lenny, I'm so sorry. There's no treatment?" "Not without a diagnosis. They're--we're--working on it. Maybe in a couple of months, but that's a long time to be on support. Between the damage from the disease and the accelerated cell loss on support systems, I'm afraid that even if he does come off of it, the brain damage will be too much." "Lenny, I really am sorry." Her face was soft and her eyes searched mine in a way I hadn't seen in months. Maybe years. If this is what it took to get some feeling back from her, it was a shame I was fresh out of dying relatives. "Did you ever work things out with him?" she said. My defenses shot up. "Work what out? We don't have a problem. I just don't care for his wife." "Yeah, right, I forgot. You're perfectly fine. You don't have the problems; it's everyone else." I opened my mouth, but I don't think she wanted to fight any more than I did. She changed the subject. "I'll bring her up in a few hours. Where is he?" "Emory." "He knows?" "Doctor Kildare? Of course, he does. He probably knows more about it than his doctors do. He might even be holding back information just to make the rest of them look bad." She gave me an odd look. "Yeah, Lenny, you're doing just fine, alright." She changed the subject again. "We'll be there by zero hundred. It's okay with me if you want to come over. Joanna would love it, and it sounds like you could use some time with your Dad." I thought of several possible replies, but in the end I just thanked her before the screen went blank. As I pulled on the rest of my clothes, I toyed with the idea of going back to the hospital, but decided later would be better. A little voice in my head kept nagging that later might be too late. I shut it up; what did a voice know? I could do more good in the lab. So I picked up my keys and went back to work. On the way past the table, I noticed that Jim had left his weaponry data chip behind. I didn't think that soon-to-be Fleet captains made those kind of oversights. ~end part 4/7 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ASCEM messages are copied to a mailing list. Most recent messages can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEML. NewMessage: